The Ides of March
by Insmanity
Summary: How could he have felt so used, how could he have felt so useless, when Caesar's eyes spoke for him; 'Even you, Brutus'


**Note:** _Charactes here are in their twenties, or thirties. I'm aware they were like, forty, when they killed Caesar but whatever._

_Cassius:  
_

_The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars_  
_But in ourselves, that we are underlings._  
_Brutus and Caesar—what should be in that 'Caesar'?_  
_Why should that name be sounded more than yours?_  
_Write them together, yours is as fair a name._

* * *

He walked idly into the flamboyant and lavish theater that was once tribute to one Pompey the Great, his leather sandals tapping along the marble floors as a mumble rose up around him. He could hear the public in the distance, the market place full to the brim with merchants rested and ready to con another man, children giggling, so blithe in the close distance. Though nothing could ease the mind of such a troubled youth.

_The Ides of March has been graced with a sun like no other_, he thought, looking past the tall pagan pillars that rose up from naught. It was remarkable how clearly and beautifully the white marble was able to reflect Apollo's rays. _Oh how I wonder, do the skies of Egypt please Caesar as the sun of Apollo?_ He doubted it. Rome's skies were unlike any other. Not Persia, nor Carthage, not Greece, and not even the might of Egypt dare compare to the glory that was Rome and her gods._  
_Sapphire eyes had narrowed in the heat. The sun, which was warm mere moments ago, had scorched his face. A hand rose up to guard the pale features from the hatred of the sun god. It was not possible for the gods to frown down upon him now, for everything had finally been put into play. It was far to late to doubt what had once been so clear in his mind. This was for Rome; this would always be for her and her safety. One life mattered not for her legacy and prosperity to continue to flourish.

The same hand, which had given up shielding his eyes and pale features, was brought down, feeling the shining blade that lay tucked under the folds of his toga, its serrated edge peeking out as though to taunt his conscience and morality. He knew very well what he was doing, and why it was being done—there was no other alternative, it had to be ended. This act in itself did not question his integrity, but the very act of doubting it, did. How could he think twice about such a thing, how could he wish to prevent this for his own selfish thoughts—it was absurd. He knew, as a Stoic, he needed to tuck such sentimentality away for the greater good. Thinking in any other way would simply be insult to his honor, his gods, and most importantly the splendor of Rome.

Cassius had said so himself. He said this was for the people, and his word was taken up, and believed. Cassius told the truth—even Casca was not blind enough not to see the tyrant being bore on their soil. All those times Caesar had refused the crown were merely a show of modesty, to test the pulse of the crowd, even.  
He was a liar—friend or not, he must be brought down. Just as the thought had finally set in his mind, it was blown out by a careless, joyous laugh that seemed to echo through the foreboding senate walls. Raven hair fell into his widened sapphire eyes as he turned back suddenly, not expecting such a loud sound. There was little doubt in his mind, however, who this lurid laugh belonged to. Cassius' dirty-blond mop of hair had rounded the corner, his once dead, dark poison eyes, lively as though two freshly shined emeralds had replaced the once deep uncaring gaze. A clear set of marble-like teeth were exposed, and with it, the younger man's unbelievable elation.

"There he walks, the noble savior of Rome!" Cassius voice spoke, the laughter still dancing in his voice, eyes glistening with favor, "Oh joyous day is the Ides of March, good Brutus!"

A soft smile climbed upon the raven's lips, finding the other's excitement endearing. Though deep inside him, he knew he supported not his friend's happiness, nor did he share it. He knew Cassius well. Well enough to be sure his intentions may not have been as noble as those of his own.  
Cassius always did have a sore spot for that time in which Caesar wished him obese. Brutus found it all quite humorous—whether the incredulous look of resentment the blond given in return, taking pride in his figure, or the truth behind the statement. A soft sigh escaped the raven. _Such words_, he thought, _never to be spoken again after this day._

"Rome needs no savior, good Cassius. Only loyal men." He said, voice betraying none of the emotion he had felt. The mentioned man hadn't seemed to notice, however, the poorly hidden guilt that seemed to take hold of the normally content Brutus.

Cassius only laughed once more, "Need she not a savior, nor a hero—only Brutus!" The flattery went without thanks. He was not ignorant to believe all these praises were truly what the devious senator thought of him. He knew that he was merely being showered in praise because there was no other way this would have moved forward without his consent. Brutus was no fool. He was not an idiot who was swayed by praise and fortune, not a jealous woman of neither Antony nor Octavian—_he was not Cassius_. He knew his friend better than all those in the senate combined, that included both heirs. Caesar was a tyrant in the making, if he had not already reached that position. Brutus saw that far prior to the sweet words of Cassius. He knew the importance of his rank, and his reputation. Cassius, albeit beautiful and intelligent, was cruel and selfish and most of all, _unliked_. Cassius was all that Brutus was not—in every way. He was not sly, nor unclear, nor did he hold a grudge for any, not even Marc Antony. The blond was all of those, and more, _much_ more.

Cassius bit his lip, not much unlike a woman who was ready to set a new rumor on its track, "Oh what a day, this will be remembered, I tell you," and just like a woman, Cassius had slipped his hand into that of Brutus' as they continued to saunter. The young raven's eyes narrowed in confusion. The blond man hadn't seemed to notice the bewildered stature, and continued, "He is being escorted by the rest, he should arrive shortly after ourselves."

"And why hadn't you offered to accompany them, was the idea not a show of respect to Caesar, in hope to lower his guard?" Brutus asked, slightly taken aback. At this the once happy face deepened into something of a bitter smile, green eyes watching from their corners. "I do not escort corpses that die without honor. I dare not steal Mercury's stage." Brutus looked away, not knowing how to answer. This was not the first time Cassius were to say something so harsh to Caesar's name, though Brutus let each of the comments, which seemed to overflow with resentment, slide each time. There was no use to argument—especially with someone so contentious. Cassius would never cease his insult, and Caesar was about to cease breathing.

"Ah, do not look so stricken, brave Brutus!" Cassius' laugh seemed less endearing to the other as it had the first time, "The road to Pluto shan't be a dark one! I'm certain his over flowing excess of ambition shall light his way!" The sarcasm was unappreciated, as Brutus slipped his palm out of Cassius', only to have the man latch onto his upper arm with both hands, "I apologize. I believe my wit's gotten the best of me," there was no sincerity in his voice, and it only took Brutus one look to know it was not in his eyes, either.

Cassius' expression had turned back to that of unmatched glee, such radiating happiness, that Brutus had not until then seen on any but the most foolish of drunkards. "Oh Brutus, look at me with eyes more kind than these." He had not even noticed his scowl up until it was pointed out to him. Not taking it to heart, Cassius leaned up, pressing his lips firmly to the others cheek, humming happily, only to pull away after a few moments.

"I have never felt such joy for, and I have you to thank! This shall be Cassius' finest conquest yet!" Brutus didn't reply only rolled his eyes. He could understand why this had to be done, though he was not about to flaunt incessant delight that was not evident to start with. A man was about to die, he failed to see the pleasure he should be receiving from such a thing. Whether it was the death of a good man, or a bad man, no death should be celebrated. Cassius hadn't seemed to share his thoughts.

"Rejoice, my fair, and honorable Brutus. Today you shall unshackle Rome from her shackles, you shall free her from her prison, you shall liberate her from the hands of a tyrant—one who raped her like a common _whore_—but you, fine, brave Brutus shall not treat her as a harlot, but make love to her in the darkest nights, cherish her people, and set her upon a throne like none other! That is you Brutus, _you_!" Cassius' voice had grown louder, and the pressure he placed upon the other caused them both to stop in their tracks.

Cassius rounded on Brutus standing in front of him, taking the handsome face into the palms of his hands. Speaking in a soft whisper now, their faces inches from one another, Cassius began once more, as Brutus kept his eyes tightly shut. "Worry not of what is to come, though know that beyond these walls is a world that is waiting for a man far greater than he who is set to die today. The Ides of March is not only witness to the death of Rome's Caesar, but also the birth of her greatest triumph."

"_Enough_, Cassius." There were no honorifics used, and there were none hidden. Though the words hadn't seemed as harsh as Brutus may have liked, instead they had come out as more of a plead than anything. For a moment, he resented himself for such weakness. Cassius laughed softly, a barely noticeable chuckle, "Always so modest."

Cassius merely smiled, not waiting for other to open his eyes. The blond leaned forward, placing a chaste but firm kiss to the corner of Brutus' lips, forcing all the determination he could into one, single poison kiss. He pulled back only to notice Brutus' eyes had widened in disbelief. A happy, much louder, chuckle escaped Cassius at the sight, before he turned and walked away, leaving Brutus in his wake. "Dare not hesitate now, fine Brutus. The hour of truth is upon us!"

His words rang true at the sight of a cluster of senators lead by the ever so proud looking Caesar, brushing past him. The elder man had not even stopped to acknowledge his friend, only continue to mingle with the crowd that was now a few paces ahead of the stunned Brutus. The astounded expression had only lasted a moment before a look of bitter determination had fueled him instead. He would not abide by a set of rules; he would just have to finish this now, alone.

Brutus slid his hand in between the red velvet of his gown and the taupe folds of his toga, fingers brushing lightly across the sharpened edge of the blade. How ironic, he thought. He had not once used this knife, not for slicing an apple, nor slitting a throat—it was as new as the day it had been gifted to him by the very man it was to reap of life. He could feel its jewel encrusted hilt slipped into his clammy fingers, and thus, he began to pull at it, slowly.

"Brutus." Sapphire eyes had shot up instantly, as a voice called. Caesar stood at the entrance, a soft smile playing at his lips, "Are you about to follow us, my good friend, or does the emptiness of the hall please you far greater than our company?" Caesar looked around him for a moment, as though to make sure none were around to hear. He bent slightly forward, hand curled over his mouth, "I wouldn't blame you for it. The senate is not exactly the life of the banquet."

Despite himself, Brutus laughed, a relief he had not felt in a while. It reminded him faintly of why he still bore such love and admiration for the graying man before him. "I shall follow, my friend. But please, do not delay them further." Caesar stood upright, fairly pleased by the answer. He turned on his heel and majestically walked into the senate's meetinghouse, toga regally bouncing behind him, leaving Brutus to himself in the shadow of the marble columns.

Brutus stood, knowing he should have been amongst those in there that moment, watching as Caesar took a seat on that small chair he called a throne. A loud panting, groaning noise, not as erotic as it may seem, came from behind him, disturbing him when he'd just about had it with unwanted run-ins. He turned to face whomever was walking into the senate later than him. Casca had just rounded the corner, still trying to tug his toga gracelessly over his messy, over grown brown hair. Brutus watched as the man almost tripped over his feet unceremoniously. With a '_ha_!' of victory, Casca managed to slip his head into the wide toga, and his arms through the large side slits, only to stop awkwardly at the sight of Brutus' incredulous stare.

"Got a knife tucked in my sandals, Brutus. Stare at me longer and Caesar's eyes will not only be those to roll." Casca's voice was threatening but Brutus paid it no heed. Shaking his head in disbelief. He never liked the brunet, and he was fairly certain the hatred was mutual.

"You're late." Brutus cut sharply to the point not wanting to prolong his talk with Casca longer than it should take him to chastise the man. The other merely rolled his auburn eyes, and scoffed at the serious raven. "You too are not exactly timely."

Brutus had to bite his tongue, "I have my reasons." No other explanation was given, as he watched Casca smirk humorlessly, coughing sarcastically into his fisted fingers, showing no respect for the man who stood before him, "And I my own."

If there was anything Caesar's friend hated more than treason, it was _curiosity_. Although he did not care much for where Casca had been, nor why the young man was smiling sadistically at him as though he's just lit fire to someone's bed, there was a nagging sensation clawing up his chest, "I was taking my time, thinking of the act we are moments from committing," Brutus knew the only way to get what he wanted from Casca, was to give the idiot what he wanted.

As he was sure of, Casca wasted no time in cracking open that ghastly gossiping mouth, "Overslept—but that harlot's bed was _warm_, Brutus. Just. Like. Her. Cunt." Elongating warm, and stopping at every word after, Casca's vulgar behavior made Brutus almost sorry he'd asked. "Likewise," brown eyes, with ever so obvious bags beneath them, eyed Brutus, "A drink or two had never hurt no man."

"Valid reasons indeed." Brutus' sarcasm had not gone unnoticed, merely used for amusement as Casca threw back his head in laughter; not caring for the dirty look sent his direction from a seemingly livid senator. "We had better get in there now, Brutus. I wouldn't want to hinder my blade the opportunity of blood. _Caesar's_ blood." Casca, brushed past him, violently, stepping into the marble room, forcing Brutus to follow the vulgar man in. There were no cries of anguish, and something inside Brutus had been glad, if only for a moment.

"Caesar, noble Caesar, please, I ask this of you as a brother!" Metellus Cimber had already taken center stage, and it seems was still in the process of pleading for his brother to return from exile. Cimber was merely waiting for a blatant refusal. Brutus knew Caesar well enough to understand the man had the patience of a god, Vesta if any, and would lead a man on for hours. He just hoped the older man would make this short. Brutus' prayer had not gone unheard.

Caesar sighed loudly, in dramatic pause, head turned to the side, before twisting back to face Metellus. He did not look swayed, and that seemed to be the air the senators seemed to feed on. Brutus caught sight of Cassius, across the room. To any man Cassius was as he always was, calm and scowling—though that gleeful fire in his eyes had changed his gaze. His eyes were brighter and livelier, and Brutus could tell. He could tell where that hand that disappeared under his toga lead to, and where green poison pools stared.

He looked to Casca at his side, who also looked happier than his usual crabby self, smirking in unrestrained joy, even giggling like a woman in anticipation with every word Caesar spoke, "I shan't take back my word, Metellus. What has been done is done. The man shall die off the soils of Rome, by the gods, man! It is done!" Brutus had never seen Caesar this annoyed, though it mattered not any longer.

Cimber had smiled, and that moment of fleeting confusion on Caesar's face had not lasted. The man had grabbed Caesar by the toga, thrusting him off his seat and to his feet aggressively. And there it was. That was the signal they'd all been anticipating. Nothing, at that point, and no one, was deaf to the roar of the senate.

It had all happened so fast that Brutus himself could not tell what had been going on. A panic had rose and he soon lost sight of both Casca and Cassius, but most importantly, his sapphire eyes had lost sight of his target: Caesar. Brutus' mind had gone into shock, the sounds and sights passing by in a flurry of knives and red cloaks, and he himself felt lost and pushed, almost falling onto the cold ground of the senate.

His heart beat faster, he couldn't see or hear much other than grunts, and harsh taps of sandal upon the white ground. He quickly pulled out his dagger, not knowing exactly where he was stabbing, but moving with the chaotic flow of senators that seemed to bend in a certain direction. He closed his eyes and pushed through, ignoring the accidental smearing of blood against his face as hands were torn away.

When Brutus had finally given a final push and broken the flurried wall of senators, he looked toward a sight he'd never thought he'd ever see. His voice, that had once failed him, had come slamming back out of his once silent lips, "_Enough_!" he screamed, his voice hoarse. Cassius, whose knife was imbedded deep into Caesar's abdomen, blood staining up to his elbows, paused. His green eyes narrowed dangerously at Brutus, coldly taking the dagger out roughly. The whole senate seemed to radiate quiet. Brutus' eyes met those of his coconspirator. Jade eyes shining back in challenge, and an agreement seemed to pass between them_: Do it now_.

In theory, it was perfect. Caesar was still standing, barely, after over twenty slices torn into his body—and his back was to Brutus. There was no guilt. He wouldn't have to face anything. Cassius himself knew this, knew Brutus so well. Knew exactly what to expect when Caesar's best friend lunged, his beautiful hilted dagger sinking upward into Caesar's back—directly piercing his heart.

Cassius was thrilled; there was nothing else to describe the way he felt at that point. Watching the great Julius sink to his knees, and _kneel_ before him, dying. Not even the gods could feel more powerful than he did. Not Zeus himself could rival the mighty Caius Cassius. Brutus, however, looked petrified. Pulling the blade out only to have in fall to the ground in a bloody mess.

His eyes had rounded, much like a cat that'd just been played for a fool. Bloody hands shook in disbelief as he watched Caesar, half dead already, turn to him, mouthing the very words that Brutus knew would undo him. He would come undone at the sight of his friend's chapped lips—and that was something Cassius had not taken into consideration.

When the dead man had finally collapsed into a bloody heap on the senate's floor, crimson already staining the once godly white marble of Pompey's Theater, the raven fled. Fled and hadn't looked back to see the entire senate staring back at his retreating back in disbelief. He was the noble Brutus, the honest Brutus, the _brave_ Brutus. Yet he felt as though the Elysium was quickly slipping through his fingers.

He was supposed to be a _hero_. A _winner_. Cassius had _told_ him, had said that to him. But Cassius was a _liar_. He always knew that. Cassius was a _liar_. He was a fraud. He was _evil_ and Caesar.. _Caesar was dead._

Brutus had ran, not knowing how far he'd gone, not knowing how long it had been. He'd lost himself in Rome, as people watched the well-known man glide clumsily between them, tears flooding, streaming in a weak manner down his flushed cheeks, blue eyes wetter than the waters of Neptune. He was a _hero_; he was _supposed_ to feel good. He shouldn't feel numb pain in his had from poison blood, where a senator had accidentally sliced at him, he shouldn't _be_ in this situation. But he _was_. Why did he feel used by the world he swore to protect—why did he feel useless to the man he _should've_ protected—but most of all, why was Gaius Brutus driven mad by three, dying words.  
_  
"Et tu, Brute?" _


End file.
